Best Famous Family Tree Poems

Here is a collection of the all-time best famous Family Tree poems. This is a select list of the best famous Family Tree poetry. Reading, writing, and enjoying famous Family Tree poetry (as well as classical and contemporary poems) is a great past time. These top poems are the best examples of family tree poems.

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• All Famous Family Tree Poems

Written by Rg Gregory | from Proverbs of Hell (a) radical ban all fires and places where people congregate to create comfort put an end to sleep good cooking and the delectation of wine tear lovers apart piss on the sun and moon degut all heavenly harmony strike out across the bitter ice and the poisonous marshes make (if you dare) a better world (b) expect poison from standing water (iii) lake erie why not as a joke one night pick up your bed and walk to washington – sleep your damned sleep in its streets so that one bright metallic morning it can wake up to the stench and fermentation of flesh the gutrot of nerves – the blood’s green effervescence so active your skin has a job to keep it all in isn’t that what things with the palsy are supposed to do – lovely lake give the world the miracle it waits for what a laugh that would be especially if washington lost its temper and screamed christ lake erie i don’t even know what to do with my own garbage pollution is just one of those things go on lake erie do it tonight (c) drive your cart and your plow over the bones of the dead (i) isn't the next one easter egg i don't want to live any more in an old way yes it is to be a socialist wearing capitalism's cap a teacher in the shadow of a dead headmaster a tree using somebody else's old sap i want to build my future out of new emotions to seek more than my own in a spring surround to move amongst people keen to move outwards putting love and ideas into fresh ground who will come with me across this border not anywhere but in the bonds we make taking the old apart to find new order living ourselves boldly for each other's sake then love is if you ask me today what love is i should have to name the people i love and perhaps because it's spring and i cannot control the knife that's in me their names would surprise me as much as you for years i have assumed that love is bloody a thing locked up in house and a family tree but suddenly its ache goes out beyond me and the first love is greater for the new this year more than any other the winter has savaged my deepest roots and the easter sun is banging hard against the window the arms of my loves are flowering widely and over the fields a new definition is running even though the streets we walk cannot be altered and faces there are that will not understand we have a sun born of our mutual longings whose shine is a hard fact - love is a new land new spartans i haven't felt this young for twenty years yesterday i felt twenty years older then i had the curtains drawn over recluse fears today the sun comes in and instantly it's colder must shave and get dressed - i'm being nagged to shove my suspicions in a corner and get out what use the sun if being plagued with new life i can't throw off this centrally-heated doubt accept people with ice in their brows are the new spartans - they wait shall i go with them indoor delights that slowly breed into lies need to be dumped out of doors - and paralysis with them no leave it there's still one more the need now the need now is to chronicle new times by their own statutes not as ***-ends of the old ideas stand out bravely against the surrounding grey seeking their own order in what themselves proclaim fortresses no longer belong by right to an older day i want to gather in my hands things i believe in not to be told that other rules prevail - there is a treading forward to be done of great excitement and people to be found who by the old laws should be little more than dead this enlightment is cutting like spring into a bitter winter and there is this smashing of many concrete shells a dream with the cheek to be aggressive has assumed its own flesh and bone and will not put up with sleep as its prime condition - life out of death is exhumed it's the other side is so disappointing no thanks leave it for now (ii) there follows a brief interlude in honour of mr vasko popa (the yugoslav poet who in a short visit to this country has stayed a long time) and it will not now take place this game is called x no one else can play when the game is over we have all joined in those who have not been playing have to give in an ear if you don't have an ear use one of those lying about left over from the last time the game wasn't played this game is not to do with ears shooting must be done from the heart x sits in the middle of the ring - he has gone for a stroll up his left nostril how can he seize a left-over ear and drag it under the ground hands up if you have been shot from the heart x comes up in the middle of himself in this way the game is over before it began and everyone willy-nilly has had to go home before he could put a foot outside (d) enough! – or too much reading popa i let fly too many words i bang away at the seed but can’t break it hurt i turn to constructing castles with cards if you can’t split the atom man stop writing

Written by Sylvia Plath | The Other Under my bowels, yellow with smoke, it waits. Under my eyes, those milk bunnies, it waits. It is waiting. It is waiting. Mr. Doppelganger. My brother. My spouse. Mr. Doppelganger. My enemy. My lover. When truth comes spilling out like peas it hangs up the phone. When the child is soothed and resting on the breast it is my other who swallows Lysol. When someone kisses someone or flushes the toilet it is my other who sits in a ball and cries. My other beats a tin drum in my heart. My other hangs up laundry as I try to sleep. My other cries and cries and cries when I put on a cocktail dress. It cries when I prick a potato. It cries when I kiss someone hello. It cries and cries and cries until I put on a painted mask and leer at Jesus in His passion. Then it giggles. It is a thumbscrew. Its hatred makes it clairvoyant. I can only sign over everything, the house, the dog, the ladders, the jewels, the soul, the family tree, the mailbox. Then I can sleep. Maybe.

Written by Sylvia Plath | Pollys Tree A dream tree, Polly's tree: a thicket of sticks, each speckled twig ending in a thin-paned leaf unlike any other on it or in a ghost flower flat as paper and of a color vaporish as frost-breath, more finical than any silk fan the Chinese ladies use to stir robin's egg air. The silver- haired seed of the milkweed comes to roost there, frail as the halo rayed round a candle flame, a will-o'-the-wisp nimbus, or puff of cloud-stuff, tipping her ***** candelabrum. Palely lit by snuff-ruffed dandelions, white daisy wheels and a tiger faced pansy, it glows. O it's no family tree, Polly's tree, nor a tree of heaven, though it marry quartz-flake, feather and rose. It sprang from her pillow whole as a cobweb ribbed like a hand, a dream tree. Polly's tree wears a valentine arc of tear-pearled bleeding hearts on its sleeve and, crowning it, one blue larkspur star.

Written by Craig Raine | In Modern Dress A pair of blackbirds warring in the roses, one or two poppies losing their heads, the trampled lawn a battlefield of dolls. Branch by pruned branch, a child has climbed the family tree to queen it over us: we groundlings search the flowering cherry till we find her face, its pale prerogative to rule our hearts. Sir Walter Raleigh trails his comforter about the muddy garden, a full-length Hilliard in miniature hose and padded pants. How rakishly upturned his fine moustache of oxtail soup, foreshadowing, perhaps, some future time of altered favour, stuck in the high chair like a pillory, features pelted with food. So many expeditions to learn the history of this little world: I watch him grub in the vegetable patch and ponder the potato in its natural state for the very first time, or found a settlement of leaves and sticks, cleverly protected by a circle of stones. But where on earth did he manage to find that cigarette end? Rain and wind. The day disintegrates. I observe the lengthy inquisition of a worm then go indoors to face a scattered armada of picture hooks on the dining room floor, the remains of a ruff on my glass of beer, Sylvia Plath's Ariel drowned in the bath. Washing hair, I kneel to supervise a second rinse and act the courtier: tiny seed pearls, tingling into sight, confer a kind of majesty. And I am author of this toga'd tribune on my aproned lap, who plays his part to an audience of two, repeating my words.

Written by Robert William Service | The Squaw Man The cow-moose comes to water, and the beaver's overbold, The net is in the eddy of the stream; The teepee stars the vivid sward with russet, red and gold, And in the velvet gloom the fire's a-gleam. The night is ripe with quiet, rich with incense of the pine; From sanctuary lake I hear the loon; The peaks are bright against the blue, and drenched with sunset wine, And like a silver bubble is the moon. Cloud-high I climbed but yesterday; a hundred miles around I looked to see a rival fire a-gleam. As in a crystal lens it lay, a land without a bound, All lure, and virgin vastitude, and dream. The great sky soared exultantly, the great earth bared its breast, All river-veined and patterned with the pine; The heedless hordes of caribou were streaming to the West, A land of lustrous mystery -- and mine. Yea, mine to frame my Odyssey: Oh, little do they know My conquest and the kingdom that I keep! The meadows of the musk-ox, where the laughing grasses grow, The rivers where the careless conies leap. Beyond the silent Circle, where white men are fierce and few, I lord it, and I mock at man-made law; Like a flame upon the water is my little light canoe, And yonder in the fireglow is my squaw. A squaw man! yes, that's what I am; sneer at me if you will. I've gone the grilling pace that cannot last; With bawdry, bridge and brandy -- Oh, I've drank enough to kill A dozen such as you, but that is past. I've swung round to my senses, found the place where I belong; The City made a madman out of me; But here beyond the Circle, where there's neither right or wrong, I leap from life's straight-jacket, and I'm free. Yet ever in the far forlorn, by trails of lone desire; Yet ever in the dawn's white leer of hate; Yet ever by the dripping kill, beside the drowsy fire, There comes the fierce heart-hunger for a mate. There comes the mad blood-clamour for a woman's clinging hand, Love-humid eyes, the velvet of a breast; And so I sought the Bonnet-plumes, and chose from out the band The girl I thought the sweetest and the best. O wistful women I have loved before my dark disgrace! O women fair and rare in my home land! Dear ladies, if I saw you now I'd turn away my face, Then crawl to kiss your foot-prints in the sand! And yet -- that day the rifle jammed -- a wounded moose at bay -- A roar, a charge . . . I faced it with my knife: A shot from out the willow-scrub, and there the monster lay. . . . Yes, little Laughing Eyes, you saved my life. The man must have the woman, and we're all brutes more or less, Since first the male ape shinned the family tree; And yet I think I love her with a husband's tenderness, And yet I know that she would die for me. Oh, if I left you, Laughing Eyes, and nevermore came back, God help you, girl! I know what you would do. . . . I see the lake wan in the moon, and from the shadow black, There drifts a little, empty birch canoe. We're here beyond the Circle, where there's never wrong nor right; We aren't spliced according to the law; But by the gods I hail you on this hushed and holy night As the mother of my children, and my squaw. I see your little slender face set in the firelight glow; I pray that I may never make it sad; I hear you croon a baby song, all slumber-soft and low -- God bless you, little Laughing Eyes! I'm glad.